by Jory Sherman
The sun began to fall away in the western sky as he headed toward the bad lands.
The air grew chill, but the sky was blue, without clouds. He rode on, knowing he would soon reach the Cheyenne River. The travois's scrape lulled his senses so that he did not see the dark shape on the horizon that appeared and disappeared each time there was a fall and a rise in the land. The figure was circling, on horseback, so that he finally saw that someone was circling, trying to come up behind him. He did not change direction, nor did he jerk his head in a tell-tale movement. He looked straight ahead, or moved his neck a few degrees, finding the rider out of the corner of his eye.
The third time he saw the pony with its rider, he knew who it was.
Black Knife had waited for him, after all. Not to be friend, but to kill Red Tomahawk.
Ahead, below rolling gentle hills, there were lowlands.
There, he would wait for the man he meant to kill.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Red Tomahawk rode over the crest of the ridge into a land of long shadows. There was cover here, clumps of trees, small buttes, little hills. But, still, this was not a place where he could fight well. He was pulling the travois and Black Knife could ride fast and circle with speed.
He rode into a grove of trees, knowing what he would do.
He dismounted, unlashed the travois.
Stripping down to his breechclout and deerskin shirt, he tucked his warclub and loaded pistol into his waist sash, cinched it up tight. He sang his death song low as he rode back over his trail, hoping to meet Black Knife out in the open.
The lone rider crested the hill, kicked his pony to a fast gallop. The markings of the pinto were familiar to Red Tomahawk. Black Knife meant to kill him as he had killed Snow Wolf. Only this time, he would not be able to sneak up from behind.
Reining in, Tomahawk waited. He began to chant his death song again.
"This is a good day to die. All of the things of my life are around me. My life is full."
The pony came on, faster and faster, chewing up the ground. Its hoofbeats made the only sound in the gathering dusk. The western sky blazed with a red fire. The shadows in the valley deepened.
Red Tomahawk pulled his pistol from his waist sash, cocked it.
The rider began to clap his hand over his mouth, screaming out a war cry.
Tomahawk stopped singing, took careful aim.
He pulled the trigger.
The pistol bucked in his hand. Lead spewed out the barrel in a flash of orange flame and white cloud-smoke.
The charging Indian threw up his hands and pitched sideways. The pinto ran out from under him. He hit the ground with a crashing thump, skidded a few paces, then rolled over and over, finally coming to a stop.
Red Tomahawk whacked his heels into his pony's flanks. He shoved the pistol back in his sash, drew his warclub as the pony, trained for hunting and war, settled into a ground-eating lope.
Snow Wolf's words came back to him: "A man's worth is judged by the hearts of his enemies. If his enemies have strong hearts; if they are brave and fearless, then a good man must be stronger of heart, braver and more fearless. A Lakota measures bravery by the way a man strikes coup. That is how a Lakota gives the enemy shame."
Red Tomahawk thought to strike coup from horseback. He leaned over the side of his pony, gripping its flanks hard with his knees.
He raised his warclub to strike as the pony galloped close to the wounded man.
The stricken Indian sat up, groggily, a rusty stain seeping through his deerskin shirt. His wrinkled bronze face contorted in pain. He began to sing his death chant, swaying back and forth even.as his life's blood pumped through the .41 caliber hole in his chest.
Red Tomahawk checked his downward swing, grabbed at the braided rope of his bridle and turned the pony in a tight skidding turn that hurled dirt and pebbles out from the animal's hooves.
He reined in the pony as it once more reached the wounded man. He leaped from its back as it stopped.
The man on the ground was not Black Knife.
"Hou!" grunted Tomahawk. "What are you called?"
"Tesson!" the man spat.
"Where is Black Knife?"
Tesson glared at him in the dim light.
"Is he a coward who lets an old man fight his battles for him?" Red Tomahawk began to walk a circle around Tesson, thumping his chest, waving his warclub. He spoke in a loud voice so that it would carry to Black Knife's ears. "I would do battle with this coward, Black Knife. Instead, he sends me a wrinkled old man. This man is toothless and withered. He cannot fight."
Tomahawk looked around him, hoping to see Black Knife ride into view. He listened hard for pony hooves striking the earth. It was quiet. No one came. There was no sound.
"Black Knife, hear me! Come! Fight! You are a coward who shoots good men in the back. You are a two-face who speaks with a tongue that wiggles like the snake. You are made from bad milk!"
"You, Red Tomahawk," gasped Tesson. "Hear my words. My nephew is hunting you now. He will cut you with his knife and put arrows into your flesh so that you are like the little bristly pig, the porcupine. You have killed me and I am ready to die. I have lived my life. It was a good life but I am ready to leave it."
His words enraged Red Tomahawk. He knew that Black Knife was hiding somewhere and that made him even more angry. He looked into the dying eyes of Tesson and thought of what he had done to Indian girls. He thought of him bringing the soldiers to Little Thunder's camp on the Blue Water. He thought of how such a man had betrayed his own people to the white man. Tesson was no good. It was better that he be rubbed out so that he could no longer hurt his people.
Tomahawk stepped close to the dying man. He drew his arm back, held the warclub loosely.
Tesson saw the movement, began to sing his death song again.
The young man's face hardened. He swung the warclub. It whished through the air, hit Tesson's temple with a sickening crunch. The sharp flint, embedded in flattened wood, smashed through bone, shattering it as though it was the shell of a bird's egg.
Tesson made no sound. He fell over on his side, blood gushing from his head.
Red Tomahawk jerked the bloody warclub loose from Tesson's skull. He struck him again in the face, crushing the nose and mouth into sodden pulp.
The old man let out a last breath and stiffened. His behind gave out an airy stink.
"I do not take your scalp, Tesson," growled Red Tomahawk. "You are no more than a white man's dog."
He stepped away from the dead man, stared at his smashed-away face. Then, to show his contempt, he lifted his breechclout, bared his privates in a last gesture of insult.
Then, the young brave shoved his warclub back through his sash. Reaching down, he unfastened Tesson's quiver. He took his bow for his own. It was a good bow, well-made, with a strong firm pull. He took, also, his knife and fastened it to his sash.
He clicked his teeth together to call his pony near. The animal balked, but held steady. Tomahawk threw a leg over its back and hauled himself up. He dug moccasined heels into its flanks, rode to Black Knife's pony, snatched up its rein. Then he headed back toward the grove of trees where he had left the travois.
He sang his victory song on the way. He sang of the bad blood of Tesson and how he had killed him. He chanted of the new pony that he had, the pony of his enemy, Black Knife. He sang of the sadness of his people and of the bad feeling in his heart for those who would turn their faces toward the white man. He sang, too, of how he would kill Black Knife, the coward who sent old men to fight in his place.
His veins tingled with his racing blood. He wanted to kill Black Knife now that he had rubbed out Tesson. He felt strong. His medicine was strong and good.
The flame sky turned purple and the shadows deepened. The grove of trees loomed dark and mysterious as he came closer. He looked all around him, listened for any strange sound. He stopped, while it was still light enough to see. He reloaded his pistol, capped it. The pistol
made him feel strong, too.
He reached the grove, found the travois. This was not a good place to stay, he knew. Black Knife might be near, but at this time between sun and moon, things were very difficult to see. The shapes of trees and rocks did not stand out, but were blurred as if seen through tears. It was the time when the land turned gray as if a thin smoke had flowed over the earth.
His hunger now was great, but he lashed up his travois and tried to think of other things. When he was finished, he rode out of the trees on the captured pony, leading his own with the travois, and into the darkness. The purple sky had turned black.
There was no sound except the scraping of the travois poles dragging across earth and rocks, the muffled plod of eight hooves. There were no birds or bats in that desolate place at that hour.
He stopped, once, listening for a sound he thought he heard. He moved the pony ahead a few paces. Stopped. There had been a sound. He was sure of that. But where? How far?
Some instinct told him that he was being followed. Whoever was there, moved only when he moved.
It was now full dark and a cold rose out of the ground, chilling him. He stopped once again and donned his deerskins. Then, he did a thing that had been in his mind.
He unlashed the rolled-up buffalo robes. He carried the first one to the captured pony, lashed it to its back. Then, he brought the other robe and placed it atop the first one. He lashed them both down tight. They made a large hump on the pony's back. He made sure the bow he had taken from Tesson was easy to reach and the thongs holding it to his new pony were loose enough to come free in an instant. Somewhere, he could not tell the exact place, a foot or a hoof made a muffled scratching sound.
Tomahawk patted the pony's rump, walked alongside, his silhouette hidden against its left foreleg. He walked in step with the horse, guiding it with the rein. He did not stop again, but strained to hear the least sound.
He followed a game trail to the southeast, keeping the pony on a straight line.
In the distance, campfires bloomed in the darkness like sunflowers. Tomahawk's pulse quickened. This was not an Indian camp. The fires told him that soldiers lay in his path. This would explain why Tesson had come upon him, riding Black Knife's pony.
Pounding hoofbeats jarred Red Tomahawk's senses.
He held the pony still, drew his pistol.
Now he heard the charging pony clearly; looked down his back trail. Closer and closer came the hoofbeats until finally a shape loomed out of the darkness.
The warrior let out a short yipping cry. Tomahawk heard an arrow hiss through the air. He ducked, instinctively, but the shaft thunked into the buffalo robe, twanged with a little wooden drumming sound.
"I am Black Knife come to kill you, Red Tomahawk, as you killed my uncle, Tesson."
Red Tomahawk cocked his pistol, waited.
"There is a way to fool your enemies," Snow Wolf had told him many winters ago. "Look at the mother prairie chicken and the quail mother, the duck mother. When danger threatens the young chicks, the mother acts wounded, dragging one of her wings in the dirt, making hurt little cries. She leads the danger away from her nest or her brood and when it is safe she flies back to them."
Red Tomahawk screamed as if in pain.
Black Knife gave an exultant cry and turned his pony in a wide turn. He charged in for the kill. -
Tomahawk moaned loud and long. He waited for Black Knife to come close.
Out of the darkness rode the Hunkpatila, his bow slung over his shoulder, his warclub poised to strike coup. Tomahawk let him come on.
When he was very close, the Oglala stepped away from his pony and took deadly aim with the pistol.
Black Knife was right on top of Red Tomahawk before the Oglala brave fired pointblank. The ball struck Knife in the abdomen, tearing through his intestines like a red-hot iron rod.
Tomahawk slipped his pistol in his sash, drew his knife. He ran after the slowing pony, caught it up. Black Knife sat it, doubled over in pain.
The Oglala reached up, grabbed Knife's pigtail, jerked him off the pony's back. Entrails protruded through a hole in the older man's abdomen. In his back, a hole the size of a pony's hoof spurted blood, fragments of kidney.
Red Tomahawk looked at the shadowy face of his enemy.
"I kill you now, Black Knife, to your face, not in the back like you killed Snow Wolf, my father."
Black Knife opened his mouth to sing his death song or to plead for mercy. But Red Tomahawk slashed across his throat, opening a wide deep cut that spilled blood from it like a crimson waterfall.
He struck again and again, driving his knife deep into Black Knife's body in a dozen places. He kicked him, walked on his face, jumped on his shattered intestines until the stench drove him off, panting.
Quickly, he caught up the pony of Tesson. He picked up the broken, slashed body of Black Knife, draped it over the animal's back. He led the horse back to his own and Black Knife's.
He rode now, toward the soldier camp, sure of what he must do. When he drew near, a sentry on picket called out in words Red Tomahawk did not understand.
Tomahawk replied in Lakota.
He heard the clicking metal sounds of a rifle's action.
A shot cracked the still night air.
Red Tomahawk rode toward the lingering flash of orange flame, shouting to his enemies that Black Knife was dead. He heard Indian voices, scouts, and he urged the ponies to go faster. When he was close enough to see the flickering candlelight inside the tents, he wheeled, kicking the body of Black Knife off of Tesson's pony. The dead brave hit the ground with a loud thump.
The Oglala gave a war cry and turned the ponies.
More rifles fired at him. He heard the whistle of air as a bullet passed fifty paces from him.
He rode around the camp, headed southeast once again, toward Rawhide Buttes.
It was over. He had killed his enemies and taken their horses.
Now he could go home to the Oglala camp.
Now he was a man.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
In the years that followed, Red Tomahawk became known as a great warrior. He and Curly, He Dog, were the bravest on every war party, these three carrying the lances, going in first to the Crow and Pawnee camps, leaving last. It had been more than ten years since Curly had been given the honored name of Crazy Horse, which was a great honor to him and his people.
Now, Crazy Horse was a great leader and older men listened to him because of his strong visions. Red Tomahawk knew he was fortunate to have such a friend. When he had come back to his people, more than fifteen winters ago, no one had asked him about his scars. Curly, however, said a very strange thing to him.
"You have hurt yourself for a reason. I know you have killed your enemies and this has made your heart strong. You will be a brave warrior, but the white man will someday change your heart."
"No," he had protested. "Never."
"Do not worry, my friend, I will never turn my face against you, even though you wear a blue coat and live in the soldier camp."
"I am a Lakota. I hate all whites. I will fight by your side and we will grow old in the lodges of our people."
Then, Curly's eyes had grown dark and sad and he had put a hand on Red Tomahawk's arm.
"Someday they will sing about us and tell the old stories of how we lived, Red Tomahawk. But I will be gone from this earth and you will have many honors to remember when you smoke your pipe with your grandsons."
"I would never cause harm to you," said Red Tomahawk, "and if you die fighting, I will die at your side."
Curly had smiled in that odd way of his and shaken his head.
"I will not die in battle," he said. "I cannot be killed that way. In my visions I saw how it would be. I cannot be hurt unless a Lakota has his hands on me. One of my own people will touch me and I will die."
"I would kill anyone who did that to you, even if it was my own son."
But Curly had said no more and now he was a great war chie
f and it was known that he had powerful visions that came true.
Once, after Crazy Horse had taken Black Buffalo Woman away from No Water, a thing happened that made Red Tomahawk remember his friend's prophecy. Even though Crazy Horse had a woman, Black Shawl, he took this other woman openly, without shame. They were all visiting the lodge of a friend, sitting there with He Dog, Little Shield, Little Big Man and some others when the flap opened and No Water stalked in, eyes burning with rage. He looked at all those gathered and stopped when he saw Crazy Horse.
"My friend, I have come!" he cried. Then, he aimed his revolver straight at Crazy Horse's head. Crazy Horse jumped up, tried to draw his knife. But Little Big Man grabbed his arm and twisted it around behind him. The pistol went off so close to Crazy Horse's face that the powder flash burned his eyes. The bullet smashed through the high part of his jaw. He fell face forward into the fire as No Water disappeared back through the lodge flap.
Black Buffalo Woman, who had been No Water's woman, fled to a relative's lodge, afraid that he would kill her, too.
For a long time, Red Tomahawk, like the others, was sure that Crazy Horse was dead. The women began keening and wailing that Crazy Horse was dead. "Our strange man killed in an Oglala camp."
"Why did you hold onto him?" Red Tomahawk shouted at Little Big Man. "Did you not know of his vision? Only when one of his own people touches him can he be killed."
Red Tomahawk wanted to kill Little Big Man, but He Dog and the others restrained him.
"It is No Water who should be killed."
But No Water escaped and when they could not find him, they killed his mule instead, even as the medicine man chanted to the still body of Crazy Horse, trying to make it come alive, though his face was like hard wax and his breathing faint as a baby's breath.
During the time when he was half-dead, half-alive, Crazy Horse would wake up from the bad dreams and cry out, "Let go! Let go of my arm!" And there were many of his friends who wanted to kill No Water. Later, when Crazy Horse was well enough, they carried him to his mother's lodge where she nursed him back to health.